


fingers, unhinged.

by saintsurvivor



Series: sam winchester tumblr bingo [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Experimental Style, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lucifer Does Not Deserve Redemption, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Sam Winchester, Post-Cage, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sam Winchester and Mental Health Issues, Sam Winchester in Lucifer's Cage, Sam Winchester's Wall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 23:52:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12995253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsurvivor/pseuds/saintsurvivor
Summary: You were burned, you were about to burn, you are still on fire.for the sam winchester bingo; prompt: lucifer/sam





	fingers, unhinged.

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note #1** : I'm not a Lucifer fan. I'm not a fan of The Redemption of Lucifer that people are trying to spin. I found him to be a fantastic villain in 04/05 but they've butchered his character completely.  
>  **Author's Note #2** : This is not a happy story, please heed all the warnings because this is dark and contains both canon typical violence, rape references both thinly outlined and some more obvious then others, what could be considered gaslighting and subtle stockholme syndrome.  
>  **Author's Note #3** : rebloggable on tumblr [**HERE**](http://saintsurvivor.tumblr.com/post/168473367828)

_They pass’d the water_

_Into a forest quiet for the slaughter._

— **John Keats** , from “Isabella, or The Pot of Basil,” in

 _Selected Poems_ (Bloomsbury Poetry Classics).

**[THEN]**

You have Fallen, tripped so many times it doesn’t feel like anything new. You inhale and you exhale. It tastes like smoke and ash and ice; it lingers on the back of your tongue, chokes you out.

You have no throat with which to cough.

He is tender, inexorably so. It feels like a betrayal; a string of bloody teeth around your neck, a whispered Holy Word burnt into your eyelids, bruises against your sternum. You wish He wasn’t so loving.

He calls you names, calls you _love,_ _mine_. He calls you _pet_ , makes you beg and weep. He is so very fond of your tears, fonder still of your obedience, fonder more still for your disobdience.

 _Please_ , you beg. _Please_ , you say on bended knee, with your toothless mouth, your eyeless face. You are a quietly rotting map of your torture, the way he slowly pulls you apart. He laughs, pets your hair.

 _Not yet,_ says He. He crouches in front of you, fingers cold as they curl around your chin.

You do not weep, you look away. You do not have eyes, no. But his face is carved into them anyway. He is you, and you are He, and perhaps that is the most monstrous thing about you.

Perhaps it’s the most human thing about you, too.

You don’t know. You haven’t been human for so very long.

 _You are a monster_ , says He, benevolent. He is your end and He is your beginning. You shudder, grace bright and burning, chilly fingers stroking down your protruding spine.

He is the only real thing.

He is tundra that isn’t grace and burning touches. You open your eyes; He is there. You close your eyes and they aren’t. He is, that lit match, that blood in your throat.

 _It had to be you, Sam_ , says He. _How else would you know it was real?_

You don’t know what is real. You don’t know what is not.

You only know this;

You were burned, you were about to burn, you are still on fire.

 

**[NOW]**

You are cathedral empty.

Crumbling arches and shattered stained glass windows, faceless Mother Mary cradling her cracked child. You are human made ash made ice.

You are screaming, high pitched. You haven’t heard just yourself for so very long.

You don’t know what is real. You don’t know what is not.

Something _thwump thwump_ aboves you, sunrise beneath your eyelids, burning throat and burning flesh, stained mattress beneath you, screaming. You know the smell, intimate. This is gasoline, gunpowder, sweat.

He is there when you close your eyes. The ceiling is there when you open them.

He is not that lit match, that blood in your throat. He is that wall in your head, the shadow that follows you, still.

You have crawled out, remade in flesh and rot, yet He is still you and you are still He. Nothing ends, and nothing begins.

You scream, still. Silent, aching.

Human.

 

**[THEN]**

You weep, on bended knee.

He laughs, once more. He is fond of laughing, fonder still of you screaming. Kicks you back, twists your ribs in His hands. He doesn’t need to do it manually. He does it like that, anyway.

You think he likes the thrill of it.

 _You aren’t going anywhere_ , says He. He is stood in front of you, a being of light and holiness. You never knew something like Him could be something like That. You half wish you could look upon Him once more, anyway.

You have never wanted your eyes to burn, but know that is the only thing you crave apart from the pain to end.

Your body is splayed open, prayer hands separated, flat laid like Kansas fields, sweet.

He buries Himself in you, tundra cold, bright and burning. He is monstrousness, and He is holy.

He is the end and He is the beginning. You are He and He is you, you do not know where you start and He ends. You haven’t know that for the longest time, now.

He digs deep, a five fingered scrape against bruise deep agony and shuddering ribs.

You are screaming, and then, you are not.

He twists your heart, watches your face.

You fall apart, right there, beneath His greedy, loving hands.

You have come to love everything that has ever hurt you.

 

**[NOW]**

Your brother is there, pulse-flutter fingers around your wrist; bright, bright eyes fixed to you.

You flinch, pistol-start quick. You have not forgotten the ways He has sunk his claws in you. You are He, and He is you. You don’t know who you are. You only know who He and he is. You don’t know if it’s really him, splayed out like a human but sneering like Him, holiness and light and revenge.

 _Sam_ , _Sammy,_ a three syllable chant, old-age ritual. Your kneeling brother, that bloodied face, that slowly loosening fist.

 _I’ve got him_ , a whispered sentence, tripping off of the tongue, murmur-buried into skin warm plaid, leather cord missing from your brother’s neck, shoulders shuddering beneath his arms.

 _Sammy, oh thank god-_ , slow like molasses, sweet fever dream as your brother mouths the words against your temple, hand against your cheek. Vaguely; you don’t know who you are, but you know him.

Your throat is shredding itself, blood slick beneath your tongue, scream torn. You smell gasoline, gunpowder. You are still burning, you think, still screaming.

Human.

You stare at him, think of illusions and angelic-sweet helix rituals, of stumbling prophets, disgraced winged Fallen’s. You do not know this man, your brother.

 

**[THEN]**

_Show me - a little -  respect_ , hiss-whispered against your throat; heaving chest, heart torn and sternum branded.

He is you, and He is arm deep within you, violation, reaping.

You are Christ, faith and fumes and death, ribs pinned through your hands; you are Christ; you have become your own martyr and you’re sorry all the way to martyrdom.

 _For the Father, The Son, The Holy Spirit_ , carved into you, He is fond of you, fonder still of Himself. He torments you, Holy Scripture carved bloodied into you, flesh-branded against your organs. _Tell me, mine, will The Father cast you out too?_

Five fingered gut punch, tongue against your mouth, swallowed whole in the snakes image.

You have always had your faith, never again shall you be holy.

_Living unloved, to die unknown,_

_Unwept, untended and alone._

— **Christina Rossetti** , excerpt of _Sappho_


End file.
